


More Than Words

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Crescendo [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Pining, unconventional confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: Greg thought he only had a thing for Mycroft’s hands. It wasn’t until he saw Mycroft in glasses that he realised he was wrong, oh so wrong.





	More Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Ha, guess I wasn't done with this verse! Belated happy birthday to [Elaine27](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaine27/profile), who has just as strong a love for Mycroft/Mark in glasses as I do :'D 
> 
> Only one song referenced in this fic, which you may have already guessed from the title. I've added 3 versions to the [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrIiLvg58SY&index=17&list=PLs2WLuS5XPWCQ7d-s7JIUlE0Lnd8dG11z) :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

The wave of melancholy—of _yearning_ —engulfs Greg the moment as soon as he returns home and opens his windows.

Habits are hard to break, especially this one. Even knowing that the irregular working hours of Mycroft’s job often keeps him from practising the piano in the morning and the evening doesn’t stop Greg from making a beeline to the windows in the late afternoons. 

It’s a little ridiculous to think how quickly and how deeply Mycroft’s music had become part of his everyday routine. It’s also completely pathetic to think that he hasn’t adjusted to not hearing Mycroft’s music on a regular basis, even nine months after he made an utter fool of himself by running down the stairs to bang on his neighbour’s door.

Feeling more comfortable now that his jacket and messenger bag are draped across the back of the sofa, Greg pads over to the kitchen, reaching for the post-it notes and pen that permanently reside on his benchtop.

_Dinner tomorrow night (Sept 8)?_

—

Still humming the song he’d been singing unabashedly in the privacy of the shower, Greg steps out of the bathroom, only to hear a familiar knocking on his door.

“Coming!” he shouts, knowing it can only be one person since his intercom hasn’t buzzed. After giving himself a quick rub with the towel and hanging it around his neck, he steps into his pants and trousers then rushes to the door.

As expected, Mycroft is standing outside his flat, looking way too immaculate for 6:30 in the morning. Greg is half-convinced Mycroft sleeps in his suits, waking up ready to face the world in his armour at the crack of dawn. It would be believable if it weren’t for the pristine condition of Mycroft’s suit—the crispness of his shirt, the wrinkle-free state of his suit jacket’s sleeves, the distinct iron creases down each trouser leg.  

It almost makes him feel bad about opening the door half-naked. Almost.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” Greg prompts, making no effort to hide his grin when Mycroft still hasn’t said a word.

“Good morning, Greg,” Mycroft replies smoothly, as if he hadn’t just been caught staring at Greg’s bare chest. Raising his hand, he draws Greg’s attention to the post-it note nestled between his thumb and forefinger. “You do realise you could have just asked me in person, or God forbid, phoned me.”

Greg shrugs, making a concerted effort to focus on the conversation instead of the way Mycroft’s slender fingers hold the paper. “Wasn’t sure if you were home. Besides, I like leaving notes. I get the excitement of writing a letter, but without the cost of postage.”

“It also informs the rest of the building’s tenants of our dinner plans.”

“So, there will be dinner plans to look forward to?” asks Greg, his grin returning with full force.

“You’re being obtuse, Greg.”

“I’m being optimistic.”

Although Mycroft sighs deeply and dramatically, there’s a look of fond exasperation in his eye that Greg has become accustomed to. “What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing fancy since I won’t have time to buy ingredients to make anything, but maybe takeaway? How do you feel about Thai?”

“Hm, I could do with a chicken pad see ew.” Mycroft pauses momentarily. “Would you like to bring it over to mine? I can be back by half past 6.”

In a well-practised move, Greg firmly quashes the familiar urge to say, “it’s a date.” Instead, he opts for something a bit more light-hearted: “Pad see ew then.” 

Mycroft groans, and Greg is still chuckling long after he’s shut the door.

—

Nine months as a detective constable has taught him that Mycroft’s mysterious government job is not the only position that demands long and irregular hours. Fortunately, the open and shut case his team has been working on is finally ready to be wrapped up. As he clocks off at 5:30, he can’t help feeling a little bit sorry for his DI, who will inevitably be cooped up in his office to tackle the resulting paperwork. It’s certainly not an aspect of the job he’s looking forward to if he continues in this career path.

Nevertheless, he still has a long way to go, and his thoughts are quickly focused elsewhere. Looking at his watch, Greg opts for delivery to his place by 6:15pm, allocating enough time to shave his 5 o’clock shadow and wash away the grime of the day.

Feeling a bit more like himself once he’s slipped into jeans and a soft, black jumper, Greg makes his way down to collect their delivery from the staff waiting patiently outside their block of flats. A cursory glance at the containers confirms their order—Mycroft’s chicken pad see ew, his own massaman curry, and a couple of spring rolls to share between them.

After paying, Greg jogs back up the stairs to Mycroft’s floor and knocks on the door.

He hears a muffled “coming!” and waits, feeling a sense of déjà vu come over him. With this morning’s memory bolstering his imagination, the most irrational parts of his mind conjure up an image of Mycroft opening the door in the same fashion.

The very thought leaves his mouth dry.

Hearing the subdued echo of footsteps draw nearer, Greg quickly scrubs his free hand over his face, feeling the warmth from his embarrassment as he does so.

“Greg?”

“Delivery?” Greg offers sheepishly, not meeting Mycroft’s eye as he holds up the plastic bag of takeaway containers.

Out of habit, Greg starts to catalogue Mycroft’s appearance, starting with his attire: the waistcoat and dress shirt he’s seen before—although never with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbows. He notes the absence of a watch and sleeve garters, yet it’s the broad expanse of skin—the forearms and hands lightly dusted with freckles—that initially captures his attention.

The unusual sight leaves him feeling a little breathless, however, that comes as no surprise.

Even before they’d met, he had been captivated by the beautiful music Mycroft’s talented hands could produce. When Greg saw him in person for the first time, it only served to add extra depth to his fixation on Mycroft’s hands.

Since then, Greg has been thoroughly convinced that’s his only fixation concerning Mycroft Holmes.

But, boy was he wrong. So, so wrong. Because now that his gaze has finally travelled up to Mycroft’s face, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Mycroft’s _glasses._

Mycroft clears his throat, breaking Greg’s concentration. “Are you coming in?”

“Wha—oh, yes,” Greg responds, stepping into Mycroft’s flat.

The familiarity with which Greg navigates the kitchen in tandem with Mycroft is testament to how frequently he’s been in his neighbour’s flat. More often than not, Mycroft’s place is the preferred location for their shared meals, as it allows Greg to relax in the sitting room while Mycroft plays a couple of songs on the piano afterwards. On a good week, they can schedule dinner twice or three times a fortnight, which is all their working hours will allow them. It’s not much, but in conjunction with occasional phone calls throughout the week, it’s enough to grow and maintain their developing friendship.

“Thai was an excellent choice, Greg,” Mycroft comments once he is seated at the table, appraising the food dished out onto on plates.

Early on in their friendship, Greg had quickly discovered that eating straight out of takeaway containers was a no-go in Mycroft’s flat. Given that it affords them extra time together—setting the table before, washing up after—it has never come up as a point of contention since then.

“Mhmm,” Greg agrees. “Smells delicious. Shall we eat?”

 A couple of bites into his massaman curry, Greg notices Mycroft putting his fork down.

“Mycroft, is something wrong?”

“No, just—” Mycroft removes his glasses and places them on the table. “That’s better. It’s impossible to have anything hot without your glasses fogging up from the steam.”

“You wear glasses.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Greg is ready to hit himself because it’s clearly obvious Mycroft does. 

“Contacts, usually.” Mycroft frowns. “As you can see, these can be quite inconvenient.”

“You weren’t wearing them this morning.” Honestly, will he ever move on from pointing out the obvious? Rubbish sort of detective constable he makes. At least, if anything, he can prove that he pays attention to detail and has decent memory retention.

Fortunately, Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind his inane comments and is quite forthcoming with an explanation. “My left eye was feeling slightly irritated today, so I switched to glasses.”

“How poor is your eyesight without them?”

“Not terrible. I suffer from myopia—” at Greg’s confused look, he explains— “I have difficulty reading or focusing on things near me. As most of my childhood and teenage years were spent with my nose buried in a book, it was necessary for me to wear glasses from an early age.”

“Can’t imagine that. You being young, I mean,” Greg clarifies, grinning cheekily.

“I assure you, I was not born wearing a suit, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Having polished off the final spring roll, Greg wipes his hand on a serviette. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that; surely the birthday suit counts.”

Mycroft groans. “For making your second horrendous pun of the day, you can do the dishes.”

Laughing unrepentantly, Greg gathers the empty plates and brings them to the sink. “How fitting—a punishment for making puns.”

From where he stands, he can’t see Mycroft, but there is an audible snort from over in the direction where Mycroft is presumably wiping down the table and bench, judging by the gentle rustle of his clothing as he moves about.

“Against my better judgement and possibly at the risk of inflating your ego, I will admit to being impressed by your wordplay.”

Greg pauses, considering all the ways he can respond. However, once again, where Mycroft is concerned, his filter seems to turn off at the most inopportune times. Like now.

“Given all the times you’ve impressed me, I think it’s only fair that I impress you every once in a while.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow raises into his hairline, well above the frame of his glasses. “I _impress_ you?”

“All the time,” Greg confirms quietly, taking comfort in the fact that his face is hidden from Mycroft from where he stands. “Surely that can’t be a surprise to you?”

“I… wasn’t aware.” Silence, and then: “Would you like to hear me play?”

As far as sudden changes in conversation go, this one is sudden enough to give Greg whiplash. Still, he’s not about to say no to a chance to hear Mycroft play.

“Is that even a question worth asking if you already know the answer?” Greg dries his hands on the hand towel and then follows Mycroft into the sitting room, making himself comfortable on the sofa. “Come to think of it, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, we’ve both had busy schedules as of late,” Mycroft replies, lifting the lid of the piano and carefully folding the red felt key cover with practised ease. “I hope you won’t mind if I choose the song?”

Although it’s an odd request coming from Mycroft, Greg nods, words caught in his throat as Mycroft acknowledges him, and then pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

Mycroft’s elegant fingers touch the piano keys, and music fills the air.

After nine months of being privy to Mycroft playing the piano in person, Greg knows how he inevitably reacts to the sight and sound of Mycroft’s hands doing its magic in making music solely for him.

Tonight, though, tonight is different.

Every note, every unspoken word conveyed through Mycroft’s music resonates within Greg, pervading his senses so thoroughly until he’s ready to burst with happiness.

The abrupt change in conversation is starting to make sense as Mycroft articulates himself through every crescendo and diminuendo, every accelerando followed by ritardando. _Where words fail, music speaks,_ Greg reflects, recalling Hans Christian Andersen’s aphorism.  

He sighs softly, the quiet exhalation entwining with the final notes in the space between them. While he may not be proficient in the language of music, he certainly knows another way to reciprocate the sentiment.

Closing the distance between them with a few steps, Greg takes Mycroft’s hand and brings it to his mouth, lips gently brushing against the smooth skin of his palm.

“Words are rather overrated, don’t you think?” Mycroft whispers, voice wavering as he shifts his hand to caress Greg’s cheek.

Greg smiles, then turns his head to press another kiss to Mycroft’s palm. “Indeed.”

—

 _Saying I love you_  
_Is not the words I want to hear from you_  
_It's not that I want you_  
_Not to say, but if you only knew_  
_How easy it would be to show me how you feel_  
_More than words is all you have to do to make it real_  
_Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me_  
_'Cause I'd already know_  
_What would you do if my heart was torn in two_  
_More than words to show you feel_  
_That your love for me is real_  
_What would you say if I took those words away_  
_Then you couldn't make things new_  
_Just by saying I love you_

 _More than words_  
_La di da, da di da, di dai dai da_

 _Now I've tried to talk to you and make you understand_  
_All you have to do is close your eyes_  
_And just reach out your hands and touch me_  
_Hold me close don't ever let me go_  
_More than words is all I ever needed you to show_  
_Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me_  
_'Cause I'd already know_

 _What would you do if my heart was torn in two_  
_More than words to show you feel_  
_That your love for me is real_  
_What would you say if I took those words away_  
_Then you couldn't make things new_  
_Just by saying I love you_

 _—_ More Than Words, Extreme (1990)

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you hadn't figured it out yet, my greatest weaknesses are hands and glasses. 
> 
> Find me on [mycroftshands](http://mycroftshands.tumblr.com/) for more of Mycroft's hands (no surprises there!) or my [writing blog](http://ivefoundmygoldfish.tumblr.com/).


End file.
